


Skeleton

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO Dark!verse [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark!Ford, Discussion of Abortion, Emotional Manipulation, Fucked Up, Gaslighting, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mpreg, Parent/Child Incest, dark shit, ford being a creep, i swear i never meant for this to happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 05:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13241022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford discovers the father of Stanley's child and is less than thrilled.orFord finds our Filbrick knocked up his brother and decides to be a creepy fuck about it.





	Skeleton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FocusOnScience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FocusOnScience/gifts).



> "If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance."  
> George Bernard Shaw

“Who’s the father?” Ford asks when it's late and the summer heat blows blacktop and something metal into the room. Sweat prickles along the back of his neck and dampens his temples. Stan’s hands tighten and crinkle the edges of his magazine. He says nothing, the only indication he had heard at all was the tense set of his shoulders and jaw; the white knuckles. “Is he someone I know?” Stan ignores him. Ford purses his lips. “Was it good?” Stan aggressively turns a page and Ford hears it tear and Stan’s muffled swearing. 

“Mind your own damn business, Ford.” Stan grunts and rolls over so that his back is to his brother. Ford stands and walks to his brother where he hide in the bottom bunk, sitting on the edge of the bed. Stan’s body is awkward, soft and young, middle swelling with a child. The thought turns Ford's stomach; the thought of some man's seed in his brother, growing into a parasite. Ford reaches out a six fingered hand and settles it on Stan’s hip, below the swell. Stan’s head whips around to stare at Ford, shocked and offended. He shoves Ford's hand away like it burns.

“The fuck, Ford?” Stan scrambles away, knees trying to draw up but blocked by his stomach.  Instead, his knees fall open, arms wrapping around his middle. Ford lets his hand fall to the mattress. 

“It's my right,” he says, evenly, “to know the father of my niece or nephew.” Stan goes an interesting shade, pale and sick. Curious. Ford watches Stan swallow, throat working. 

“You’re so smart,” He finally says, “you figure it out.” And he looks so miserable that Ford regards him shrewdly before moving back to his desk.

* * *

 

When Ford figures it out, the pen in his hand snaps and shatters, splattering him with black ink.

* * *

 

He watches more closely now. He sees Filbrick's hands on Stan. The possessive grasp against Stan’s neck, the guiding hand wrapped around Stan’s arm. 

Filbrick pulls Stan out of school when his stomach becomes too large to explain away. 

Ford grits his teeth against the urge to break his father's face; finds his hands shaking over the rat poison. He restrains himself, but. He won't let Filbrick ruin his brother’s life.

It hurts Ford when Stan slips down the stairs with a startled yell and loud banging. He hits the bottom by the time Ford has run out to examine the damage. Stan is clutching himself, biting back small, broken whimpers of pain. He carefully descends, kneels by his brother.

“Stan, what happened? Are you hurt?” He lets his hands fly over Stan, seeking out injuries. Stan groans, refusing to unfold from his curl, instinctively protecting his vulnerable middle, cradling his left arm.

“My arm.” He grunts through grit teeth. “My arm’s fucked.” Ford looks and, while the arm appears fine, there is a significant bruise forming. 

Ford drives them to the emergency room in Stan's El Diablo. The nurses rush at them until they see that Stan is not in labor. Then it’s an hour long wait until someone sets Stan’s arm, a fracture, and scolds him for being so careless, and how lucky he is that nothing happened to the baby. Stan gets pale at that, hugging his stomach and Ford feels a twinge of guilt. 

When they get home, Filbrick drags Stan to his office and Ford eavesdrops until the sounds he hears make his blood boil and his dick throb. The cold shower doesn't help with either.

* * *

 

Ford considers telling his mother. He wonders if she'll interfere. 

“I'm worried about Stan.” He says, late while Stan is helping Filbrick with stock and inventory. Ma hums.

“Why’s that, honey?” She asks, looking over the fresh coat of paint on her nails. Ford taps the eraser of his pencil against the open notebook on the table, feeling it bounce.

“He…” Ford trails off, honestly unsure how to continue. “He's spending a lot of time with Pops lately.” 

“Well, that's good.” Ma says, blowing on her nails, looking at Ford over her fingers. “It's good for them to spend time together.” Ford chews his lip. 

“He, well. Ma. He's got...bruises.” 

“Stanley's always been clumsy, bless him.” Ma waves a hand dismissively. Ford frowns.

“No, Ma, like. I think,” Ford takes a deep breath. “I think Dad is...hurting him.” Ma freezes, then slowly puts the polish brush back into the bottle and twists the cap shut.

“Stanford,” she starts. “Never say that again.”

“But, Ma--”

“No.” Ford's mouth snaps shut. “I would know, Stanford. Don't think for a moment I wouldn't know.” She looks at him and Ford clenches his teeth. “Your father works hard for this family. I won't have you disrespect him.” Ford scowls. Ma's face softens and she reaches out a hand with venom bright nails, cups his cheek. “I know you mean well, baby, but you're wrong. Stanley's fine.” She smiles at him, forgiving.

“I guess you're right.”

* * *

 

Ford waits for a moment alone with his brother. It's surprisingly difficult, Stanford at school and working late on his science fair project and Stan working at the pawn shop, closely watched by Filbrick after the stair incident. Stan can't really do much, not with one arm in a brace, but Filbrick still finds some task or another to keep Stan working ceaselessly. 

It’s a month before Ford finally has time alone with Stan, Ma visiting her mother and Filbrick taking a rare night off to play poker with the men at the bar. Ford wastes no time in finding Stan. His brother is napping in his bunk, sleep shirt pushed up above his now obscene stomach, blankets low on his thighs. His face is slack, mouth open, a hint of drool glistening at the corner. He looks young, and they  _ are _ young, but Stan looks childish with his angry, red spots of acne marring his smooth face, pale now that he doesn't spend every spare moment in the sun.

Ford can't help the hand that moves to brush against his brother’s unfortunate nose, the same Pines nose they share. His touch is light, so light he doesn't feel anything, though his breath catches in anticipation; waiting for his eyes to snap open in accusation. Instead, nothing happens, Stan slumbers on. Ford, emboldened, let's his fingers dust along his brother’s cheek, under the soft, tender skin beneath the eye and over the swell of his cheekbone. He feels the minute imperfections of Stan’s juvenile skin. The rise of red and white heads, the shallow pock scars that are fading even now, the roughness of adolescent stubble.

Ford freezes when Stan snorts, but Stan just sighs a rough snore. Ford smiles fondly at his brother cradling Stan’s round face, letting his  thumb sweep away the line of saliva bleeding onto his chin. Ford repeats the gesture when Stan’s warm breath ghosts over his hand, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. The heat of Stan’s mouth is tempting and Ford imagines what it would feel like to run his thumb over Stan’s teeth and over his silky tongue. He feels heat travel north and south, diffusing across his cheeks and curling in his gut. He brings his other hand to join the first, brushing five knuckles against Stan’s throat. Stan make a small noise, frown pinching his sleeping face. Ford can see the rapid movement of Stan’s eyes under his eyelids, moving back and forth in the depths of the REM cycle. Ford wonders what Stan’s mind is projecting, what he's dreaming of. Ford lets the hand on Stan’s neck spread broad and flat against his chest and rubs down over the stained cotton blend shirt until he reaches the bunched wrinkles that crash like white caps against the mound of Stan’s stomach. Ford feels the heat in his gut shudder contort into a disgust that twists his face into something unfamiliar. 

Ford looks at the red stretch marks where the child in Stan has grown so fast; has forced Stan’s body to change in ways it shouldn’t have. With a bitter, sickening lurch, Ford thinks: Filbrick’s child. 

Ford places a shaking hand on Stan’s roundness, allowing a brief fantasy of bringing his fist down hard enough to force the abomination to abort (and Ford wonders if it’s really fair to call the unborn thing an abomination; he wonders how many fingers it will have). Instead, he rubs circles around Stan’s navel until Stan starts squirming, restless in his sleep. Slowly, Ford watches Stan’s eyes blink open, bleary and unfocused.

“Pops?” He mumbles and Ford’s snatches his hand back with hiss, feeling burned and filthy. Stan blinks sleep from his eyes and finally focuses on Ford, his untreated myopia forcing his eyes into a squint. “Ford?” He rubs at his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “Thought you was at school.” He yawns.

“I finished early today,” Ford says. He watches Stan wiggle his way up the bed until he can lean against the headboard and stretch his arms. He kicks the blanket off, revealing his thin, hairy legs. 

“So, what's up?” Stan asks around another yawn.

“Ma and Dad are out so I thought we could hang out.” Ford says, smiling softly at his brother. “It’s been a while since we’ve done that.” Stan grins at him, still sleep soft but brightening like a halogen lamp. 

“Hell, yeah, Sixer!” Ford stands, letting Stan swing his legs over the side the bed with a grunt.

“I had hoped to work on the Stan-o-War,” Ford starts, looking pointedly at Stan’s stomach. “But maybe we could just watch TV instead?” Stan frowns, face flushing as he pulls roughly at the hem of his shirt. The shirt refuses to stay down. 

“TV sounds good.” Stan pushes himself up, grimacing, moving awkwardly. Ford watches his brother waddle and feels that disgust curdle further in his stomach, growing sour and hot.

“Why do you keep it?” Stan stumbles, looking back at Ford with confused surprise.

“What?” 

“The fetus,” Ford gestures to Stan’s middle again. Stan wraps his arms around it. “There are way to get rid of it.” Stan pales, takes several steps back.

“Ford that’s--Ford, no.” Stan shakes his head hard enough that he stumbles again, leaning against the wall. Ford steps forward.

“Stan, I know this is hard, but--”

“God, Ford, Pops would kill me.” Stan shivers, arms tightening. And there it is, Ford thinks. His opening.

“I don’t see what our father has to do with your...child.” Stan starts to chew on his lip. “I'm actually surprised he let you keep it all.” 

“...He.” Stan says, face pale besides the bright spots of color on his cheeks. He’s sweating. “Ma took me to the doctor and...the baby’s a he.” 

“I’m sure that made Dad happy.” Ford says, taking a careful step closer. Stan nods, smiling tightly.

“Yeah, he was...real happy.” He looks up at Ford. “Hey, can we just...watch TV?” Stan rubs his arms like he’s cold. Ford is close enough that he can settle a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeeze.

“Stanley,” he says gravely. Stan won’t look at him, so he carefully, gently guides Stan by the chin with his free hand. Stan looks down still, lashes long and coquettish. “Stanley, I know.” He says softly, privately between them. Stan licks his lips nervously and Ford tracks that movement that leaves Stan’s lips glossy.

“Come on, Ford, we can watch yer science shows, just,” he finally looks at Ford. “Please?” He begs and Ford shoves away the tender part of him that wants to give in and soothe his wounded brother. Instead:

“When I graduate I want you to come with me.” He says and Stan looks bewildered. “Away from here and away from  _ Dad _ .” He spits and Stan flinches.

“Ford, stop, it ain’t--”

“I’ve heard you,” Ford rumbles, low and quite, leaning closer until Stan shrinks back. Ford lets him; he doesn’t have far to go. Stan is beginning to shake.

“F-ford, I don’t know what you’re--”

“After you broke your arm,” Ford continues and Stan shakes his head. “I listened at the door of the office.” Stan goes impossibly pale and Ford tightens his hold, worried Stan might faint.

“N-no that was j-just a...a whoopin’, Ford.” Stan shakes himself and frowns hard. “Y-ya got a sick mind, Stanford!” Stan declares and shoves at Ford hard enough that he stumbles back. 

“You know he only lets you keep that abomination because it’s his.” Ford hisses, straightening, staring down his brother with his reddening face and shaking fists. 

“Shut up, Ford, ya don’t know what yer talkin’ about!” He growls.

“I’m trying to help you, Stanley!” Ford snarls back.

“I don’t need yer help, Sixer.” Stan is yelling now.

“The abomination in your stomach says otherwise!” Stan freezes, face going blank and then dark as a thundercloud and thrice as cold. 

Ford should have seen the punch coming. He does, out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t respond fast enough and it catches him on his cheek, his glasses go flying and he stumbles, hand to his stinging face.

“You shut yer mouth, Stanford.” Stan seems to take up so much space, fury lending him impossible mass. Ford bites down on the angry retort that threatens to rise from him. “Ya don't know what yer talkin’ about.” He says, shaking with fury or nerves, Ford doesn't know. “P-pops is good to me.” Stan’s voice cracks over their father. “You're just saying shit cause I'm finally gettin’ some attention.”

“Oh, Stan.” Ford looks at his brother, his shaking little brother with a stomach swollen with their father's seed. He represses the disgust, carefully schools his face into grief. “I'm so sorry,” he says instead of the million furious words that rage behind his teeth. Stan shakes his head. Ford opens his arms, stepping toward his brother for a hug. 

“I'll punch ya again, Ford, I swear.” Stan says. Ford continues, calling Stan’s bluff. “I swear,” Stan says again without heat or feeling as Ford wraps his arms around his brother’s shoulders, hips held awkwardly away from Stan’s stomach. 

“I'm sorry,” Ford whispers into Stan’s shoulder. He starts shaking again and Ford rubs between his shoulder blades. “I'm sorry.” And Stan finally starts the cry. “Shh,” he soothes. Stan hugs him back, clinging to him, hands fisting into Ford's sweater, head pressing into his shoulder. He feels Stan's knees give out and follows him to the floor, the two of them wrapped around each other. Ford brings a hand up to pet Stan’s hair, nails a gentle scrape against Stan’s dirty scalp. “I should have been there for you.” Stan shakes his head. 

“I- _ huh _ it w-was m-my fau- _ uh _ -lt.” Stan stammer between sobs. Ford shakes his head, hopes Stan can feel it.

“Sh, it's okay. You couldn't have helped it.” Ford risks kissing his brother on the temple, chaste and familial. “I should have been there for you. But it'll be okay now,” Ford says. 

“H-how?” Stan asks, hopeless. 

“I'm going to get you away from here,” Ford takes Stan’s face into his hands, thumbs away the tears he can. “When I go to college, I'll take you with me. You'll be safe. No Dad. Just you and me.” Ford says, looks into Stan’s red, wet eyes. Stan swallows roughly. 

“The baby.” He whispers and Ford frowns.

“...do you want it?” Stan thinks and slowly nods.

“It...it’s not the kid's fault.” He says and Ford resigns himself. 

“Okay, don't want Dad around him anyway.” Ford nods and Stan looks fearful. 

“You think he'd…?”

“I don't trust our father, Stanley,” Ford strokes his knuckles gently over Stan’s cheek. “That's why I'm going to take care of you. Okay?” Stan is quiet a long time before he nods.

“Okay.”

* * *

 

They name the baby Sherman.


End file.
